


Visions Softly Creeping

by JJ1564



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Gen, Hell Trauma, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sad Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Supernatural Summergen Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 15:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16098857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ1564/pseuds/JJ1564
Summary: Dean’s driving late one night, with Sam asleep next to him, when the lyrics of an old song make the visions and memories of hell he’s been dealing with overwhelm him. This is set early Season Four, before ‘In The Beginning’.





	Visions Softly Creeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesupplanter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesupplanter/gifts).



> Huge thanks to my betas milly_gal and dizzojay, and to thesupplanter for this wonderful prompt:  
> "The Sound of Silence", dealer's choice; use the lyrics as inspiration for a setting, pick a stanza and apply it to a scene from canon, have a character sing it during a karaoke contest. This can be serious or silly, be as literal or abstract as you want.

DEAN

Sam’s been on at me, ‘what do you remember about Hell ? What was it like? How are youI? You should talk about it, you need to talk about it, blah blah blah’. But I can’t talk about it, not to Sammy, not to anyone. Because I remember every-fucking-thing. What I saw, what I did...

He’s asleep now, head lolling against Baby’s window, long legs bent up in the footwell, probably drooling. I know he ain’t been sleeping much, ‘cause I’ve hardly slept at all and I can tell by the cadence of his breathing that he’s feigning sleep. Hey, look at me, using words like cadence and feigning – yeah, I’d never say ‘em out loud, always gotta make people underestimate me. 

Radio’s on, some soft rock show; it suits my mood and driving at night. I’ve turned the volume down a little, even though Sam’s used to sleeping through my music. 

Suddenly the words of an old song wash over me and give me chills. I’m shaking, I’ve got goosebumps and I feel like I’m gonna throw up. 

Hello darkness, my old friend  
I've come to talk with you again  
Because a vision softly creeping  
Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
And the vision that was planted in my brain  
Still remains  
Within the sound of silence

The visions are with me all the fucking time. When I close my eyes, I see the souls I tortured; when I look in the mirror I see my face twisted in agony. I have to pull over, stumbling out of the car to gulp down fresh air, trying to keep from chucking up. I pace up and down for a bit, then lean against the door. Of course, it doesn’t take long for Sam to wake up.

“Hey, you okay?” He calls out, leaning across the bench seat towards me. 

“Yeah, just needed to take a leak,” I reply, the lie tripping off my tongue so easily. And now I realize I do need to piss. Awkward. 

“D’you want me to drive?” He asks, and I laugh humorlessly. 

“No way, Sleepin’ Beauty, you’ve just woken up,” I try to keep my tone light; “I don’t trust you behind the wheel of my baby even when you’re wide awake,”

“And you haven’t slept in hours – probably days,” he retorts, and I know he’s giving me bitch-face number five, although I can’t see him properly. 

“I’m fine,” I say, and I wonder how many times I’ve said this in the last few weeks. Enough to be a freakin’ rich man if I had a dollar for each time. 

“Okay, but I’m hungry. Let’s stop at the next motel and grab some food,” he sighs. “I’d kinda like to sleep lying down occasionally too.” 

I know he’s not really hungry, he’s just saying it to make me stop somewhere. I appreciate his lie and the concern behind it. I know he’s worrying about me, and if I could sleep I know he’d sleep better too. Perhaps tonight - with the help of liquid insomnia cure - I might manage a few hours. 

But I can’t eat when we make it to the nearest diner; my stomach is still in knots and the visions that are planted in my brain just won’t quit, even though we’re in a brightly lit, fairly noisy diner, and Sam’s sitting right across from me, his brow scrunched in a frown. 

“You sick or something?” Sam asks, as he watches me pick up and pull apart my burger without actually taking a bite. 

“Huh?” I shrug, hoping he’ll drop it, but of course, he won’t drop it – after all, he is Sam-stubborn-as-fuck Winchester.

“You have red meat right there, and you’re not eating it.” 

I pick the bun up and take a bite but all I can taste is ash, all I can smell is the flesh of the souls roasting, all I can see is blood. 

“Shit, Dean, you okay?” Sam’s up and round to my seat in seconds. For once I’m grateful for his attentiveness, and just shake my head miserably. We make it to the bathroom just in time for me to throw up into the toilet bowl. The bathroom’s not too clean and the floor smells of piss, making me throw up again. 

Sam hovers anxiously by the door; I know he’d come in and rub my back if the cubicle wasn’t so narrow. “You must have a bug or something. Can’t be food poisoning, you’ve barely eaten anything today...or...or yesterday.” 

I wish I could tell him it’s not a bug or food poisoning, it’s memories of Hell that are fucking overwhelming me and I don’t know what to do. Panic at not knowing what the hell to do about Hell makes me puke again, not that there’s anything but bile coming up. 

I’m acquainted with all types of bodily fluids now – blood, of course, but also vomit from the chunky soup kind to the thinner but no less revolting bile. It stinks in every form. Same with shit – although it was usually the runny kind I saw – most folk shit themselves when they’re being tortured. I know I did, much to my shame and Alastair’s delight. 

Holy shit, I wish I could turn my fucking brain off. All this is making me puke more and I know I’m freaking Sam out.

“Sammy,” I moan when I can lift my head up. “Ya gotta punch me.”

“What the h...heck, Dean?” Sam’s so careful not to use the h-word around me these days. 

“You gotta knock me out,” I mumble.

“I’m not punching you, dude. I’m taking you to...”

“No!” I try for forceful but know it’s more like pathetic.

“Okay, okay. Just take some deep breaths.”

“Can’t puke ‘nymore, S’mmy. Can’t stop...” I try to explain.

Sam takes pity on me and lands me a swift one on the chin. I wake up on a motel bed the next morning, feeling like shit, so sleeping - or unconsciousness - didn’t exactly help. But at least for several hours I was free of all those fucking visions, all those god-awful memories. 

Sam’s asleep on the bed next to mine. He’s sitting up, so I guess he was watching over me until exhaustion claimed him. Even in sleep, he’s frowning, and I hate that I’ve caused him so much pain and worry. I know he’s had a rough time, and that that’s a fucking understatement, with me being gone and my miraculous return. But I’d do it all again, every bit of it, to keep him safe. And I guess some folks would call me stupid, stubborn, suicidal, even selfish – but I couldn’t let my brother die. Just couldn’t do it. 

I mean, look at him. So freakishly tall now, and wide, too. Hard to imagine this is the baby that dad shoved into my arms all those years ago. But he still looks like a kid when he’s asleep; his messy hair’s even messier, his mouth’s open a little letting puffs of air sneak past – he’s adamant that he never snores – and his long limbs are relaxed, legs spread out, arms loosely crossed in front of him.

This is the kid dad told me always to look out for, then he told me I might have to kill. Perhaps he’d be angry that I saved Sam, but when his spirit came to our rescue at that old cowboy cemetery he just looked so full of love and pride...

“Dean, you ‘kay?” Sam yawns. 

I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice him stirring. “Yeah, I’m good, thanks nurse.”

“You’re welcome, and...and it was kinda my fault,” he runs his right hand through his hair, “I shouldn’t have made you eat when you were feeling ill.”

“You didn’t make me do anything, dude. I thought if I ate I’d feel better – big mistake.” I shudder melodramatically for Sam’s sake and I’m rewarded with a smile. 

“Yeah,” Sam’s smile widens, and despite everything, I smile back. He’s alive. I’m alive. We’re together. 

The visions can go fuck themselves. 

 

SAM

"Fools" said I, "You do not know  
Silence like a cancer grows  
Hear my words that I might teach you  
Take my arms that I might reach you"  
But my words like silent raindrops fell  
And echoed in the wells of silence

Dean thinks I’m still asleep, but I’ve been awake a little while, just choosing not to start our dance of questions and avoidance again. Trying to talk to him lately is exhausting. But while he was outside the car, I couldn’t help but think how relevant the words of that old Simon and Garfunkel song are to our situation. I know Dean remembers Hell; I know he doesn’t want to tell me what he went through because he’s protecting me, but what I’m imagining must be worse than what happened to him...doesn’t it? 

And it’s not healthy, keeping it all to himself. He’s hardly sleeping, drinking more than ever, barely eating and he’s like a bear with a sore head most of the time. I even brought up going to a counsellor for PTSD, but he shot me down with “I was in Hell, Sam. Not Afghanistan or Iraq. There’s no one out there experienced to deal with that.” 

And I smart-mouthed him with “I thought you didn’t remember that.” The look he gave me – partly anger but mostly pain – made me instantly ashamed. I should stop asking, wait for him to bring it up, but the silence is dragging on. Yeah, silence like a cancer grows. 

Sometimes I just want to hold him in my arms, tell him it’s all gonna be okay, like he used to with me when we were kids and I was hurt, or we had to leave town and start over yet again. I knew I’d always be okay while Dean was around. Even in Stanford, knowing Dean was out there and that if I needed him he’d drop everything to come, was a comfort. It gave me courage and confidence. 

Losing him was...there aren’t enough words to describe it. Devastating, horrific, awful, distressing, painful, agonizing. None of them come close. Seeing him being ripped apart, knowing where he’d gone when he died...nothing can describe that. And it was all for me; to bring me back, because he thought my life had more value than his. Because he loves me too damned much and himself not at all. 

Now I have to be there for him. I can’t believe he came back, I still can’t get my head around it. I know Dean’s wary and waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I think it’s a fucking miracle. Of course, he’s gonna have issues. I need to be patient, I need to look after him, I need to be there for him. So I’ll pretend to be hungry just to get him to stop driving, to get him to eat and rest. 

Except it’s a bad idea tonight. Dean is exhausted; the dark circles under his eyes are an alarming shade of purple against his far too pale face. He doesn’t even look at the waitress let alone flirt with her, and ‘Kimmy’ is just his type – blonde hair, big boobs, sweet smile. And when the food comes, he stares at his burger and fries like they’re contaminated. He sees me watching him, so he picks up his burger but only picks at it, until I ask him if he’s okay, and that forces him to take a bite. I regret it instantly, as Dean’s pale face turns green and his big eyes water. He doesn’t bat me away when I rush to help him, so I know he must be feeling real bad. 

I manage to get him to the men’s bathroom in the nick of time, then watch helplessly as he vomits several times until just bile is coming up. And that stuff is horrible, it burns something awful. He must have a bug; it can’t be food poisoning as he’s barely eaten anything for a couple of days. 

“Sammy,” he lifts his head to moan. “Ya gotta punch me.”

“What the h...heck, Dean?” I was so shocked, I almost said what the hell, but that’s a word I try to avoid these days. 

“You gotta knock me out,” he groans.

“I’m not punching you. I’m taking you to...” I’m seriously worried now; he needs medical attention. 

“No!” He whimpers pathetically. He’d rather pass out on a piss-covered toilet floor than go to hospital, stubborn bastard. 

“Okay, okay. Just take some deep breaths,” I sigh, wanting so much to scoop him up and carry him straight to the nearest ER. 

“Can’t puke ‘nymore, S’mmy. Can’t stop...” Dean mutters and now I get it. He can’t stop puking for some reason, and it’s agony by now. So, I do the only thing I can: I turn him around so he’s facing me as he lists against the cubicle wall, and I punch him. He’s out like a light, so I lift him up onto my shoulder and carry him through the diner. 

Kimmy is all concern “Is your friend okay? Shall I call 911?” I tell her he passed out and I’m taking him to the ER. I try to extract my wallet from my back pocket, but she waves me away. “Don’t worry about it, hon.”

I’m sorely tempted to drive straight to the nearest hospital, but I know Dean would be pissed, so I drive across the block to the motel we booked into just an hour ago. I open the door and carry him in, lowering him as gently as possible onto the bed nearest the door and then cleaning him up as best I can. I prop his head up on pillows in case he vomits again, and after a couple of hours I get him to drink some water. He doesn’t wake up, but he takes a few sips. 

I sit watching him, wondering what he’s dreaming about, wondering what he really remembers about his time in Hell. I know he’s keeping quiet to protect me, like he’s always tried to protect me from the bad stuff all these years. And I wish he could’ve been here to protect me from letting Ruby into my life. I don’t know how I’m going to tell him about what I’ve been doing with her. We’re saving people, but it’s not exactly in a conventional way. I know I’d promised him not to use my ‘freaky ESP stuff’, but life without him was so fucking hard. Ruby filled a tiny part of the void, and she’s not like other demons. She’s funny, good company, and she seems to care about me. And as a bonus, we have pretty great sex, too...

Dean whimpers and thrashes around a bit, knocking back the bedcovers, so I get up to cover him up again, and once again I long to just hold him in my arms. I gently stroke his sweaty hair; he sighs, his head slightly leaning towards my touch and my eyes sting, knowing Dean’s had so little kindness and compassion shown to him. 

I check the salt lines at the doors and windows before climbing back on my bed and resuming my vigil over my unconscious brother. It was a drastic action, and I feel a little guilty about decking him, but at least it got him to stop chucking up and he’s resting, at last. I sigh in relief and that opens the floodgates. I cry for him, for all that he went through and all he’s still going through. I cry for me, for my clumsy, useless attempts to help him and for the secrets I’m keeping from him. I pull myself together and glance over at Dean before going to wash my face. 

I resume my position, sitting on the bed watching over Dean, and must’ve fallen asleep, as I wake up with a stiff neck and a dry mouth. Dean used to tease me about snoring, which I’ve always denied but I know I do, a little bit. I carefully turn my stiff neck to see Dean sitting staring at the motel wall. 

“Dean, you ‘kay?” I ask, stifling a yawn. 

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks nurse.” He answers, trying to smile but it looks more like a grimace.

“You’re welcome, and...and it was kinda my fault,” I confess, as I try to smooth out my hair, “I shouldn’t have made you eat when you were feeling ill.”

“You didn’t make me do anything, dude. I thought if I ate I’d feel better – big mistake.” He shudders theatrically for my sake and I smile. 

Dean smiles back. He’s alive, and I’m alive because of him. We’re together.

I won’t let silence grow like a cancer, not between us.


End file.
